


Sweet 'n' Sour Grapes

by torigingerfox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bedsharing, Co-workers, F/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22434988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torigingerfox/pseuds/torigingerfox
Summary: "Hermione had had quite enough of her lovable co-worker, especially after the abysmal day they just had."
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 15
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcal/gifts).



> Many thanks to MCal, who not only provided me with the prompt but also did an amazing beta job.
> 
> I'm Italian and all the jokes about my Country were made knowingly and in good fun.  
> No Italians were hurt during the drafting of this story.  
> I don't own the characters, and they're probably pretty thankful for it.

**San Donato Milanese, Italy**

**11.00 PM**

Hermione had had quite enough of her lovable co-worker, especially after the abysmal day they just had.

First, no one at the Ministry Travel Office could find their application for an international Portkey. She suspected Malfoy was the real culprit behind that, even though he insisted he had filled in all the right request forms. He always got bored with what he called “Secretary stuff” and carried out those tasks half-heartedly, which ultimately resulted in them having issues while they were abroad.

Not even being able to leave the UK though, was a first, even for him. There was a reason why Hermione was the one that always organised their business trips, after all. Unfortunately, she had had to visit her parents in Australia because her father had a minor surgery, and couldn’t take charge of arranging that particular trip.

It took her hours to sort out the bureaucracy and get their Portkey approved, especially since they were going to Italy. The Italian Ministry was nothing but a mess, and their modules took hours to fill in. They seemed to have an obsession for time-consuming, unnecessary and silly questions. Not to mention the fact that they never bothered to put a bloody translation charm on the papers.

One would say that was enough for one day, but no. Not at all. Luck would have it that the Italian Ministry workers would be on strike once they arrived at the Portkey Landing Area right outside Milan.

No one had been there to pick them up, brief them, and take them to their Hotel.

They had to take a Muggle Taxi, and Malfoy had spent the whole ride complaining about the traffic, the pollution, the not-so-gentle driving style of their taxi driver, the fact that the Ministry had them pay their transfers and trips in advance, Hermione’s hair blocking his view of the landscape.

By the time the driver dropped them out of the most derelict building she’d ever seen (and that included the Shrieking Shack), she wanted to strangle him.

“Where on Earth are we Malfoy?” she asked, silently praying the driver had left them at the wrong address.

She caught him looking at the building, his nose wrinkled in obvious disgust.

“Well?” she insisted. She couldn’t believe he had made a mess, again. Well, actually, she could believe it very well, but for Merlin’s bloody hat, he’d better bloody fix it or she would make sure this would be his last business trip. Ever.

Malfoy soon regained his composure and took a parchment out of his robe’s inner pocket. He took his sweet time checking the address, muttering something that suspiciously sounded like “going to kill him”.

Hermione’s patience had ended almost ten hours ago, back at the British Ministry to be exact.

“Our Hotel, it seems”

The building was so decrepit that Hermione had a hard time imagining a time when it had been in good conditions. The façade was so scraped it was difficult to guess the original colour of the walls, that were covered in graffiti and unidentified stains.

Women in various states of undress patrolled the side streets. It didn’t take a genius to guess their occupation.

In the most recess corners, Hermione spotted shady individuals that probably sold illegal substances.

She turned towards Malfoy “And do you call that a hotel? Looks more like a brothel to me. We’re not even in Milan! How did you even find this place??”

“I didn’t _find it_ , Granger”

“Wha—Malfoy I swear if you delegated again to your minions, this time I’m going to bloody hex you!” 

He looked affronted by the suggestion, but Hermione knew for sure it was all an act. 

“Well?” she pressed.

“Okay, you win Granger!” he hissed. “Happy now? Ten bloody points to Gryffindor!”

“No, Malfoy. I am not happy!” she screamed back.

She had been extremely patient and accommodating, but the brothel was the last straw, and she was sick of his attitude.

“I would be happy if we had travelled seamlessly from the UK to Milan. I would be happy if the hotel wasn’t a cesspool. I would be happy if you hadn’t spent the whole time complaining, as if all of this weren’t your bloody fault!” Her tone was shrill, and a part of her knew she must’ve looked ridiculous, with her hair bouncing up and down and her fists clenched, but she couldn’t help it.

She had been putting up with him too long, and now she needed to let it all out.

“ _And_ , I would be happy if you showed some respect to your bloody partner, since I am the only one willing to work with you, and to put up with your antics!”

Malfoy was furious too, she could tell by the vein pulsating on his temple. She expected him to burst and start drowning her in insults, but unexpectedly, he simply leaned over and hissed. “We’re attracting unwanted attention, you annoying witch. Just get in already!”

Hermione looked around. To be fair, there were a couple too many individuals staring at them, so she nodded and followed him inside.

Before crossing the threshold, she looked up to give one last check at the building. Predictably, the neon sign above the doorway was broken. The only letters of the once ALBERGO PARADISO that had survived the neglect were A R D O. What a lovely contradiction, from “Hotel Heaven” to “I burn”. The universe had a great sense of irony, that was granted.

Hermione sighed and hoped the surprises were over for the day

.…..

Once inside the building, Hermione noticed with great displeasure that the situation was no better and that sometimes one can indeed judge a book by its cover.

The Hall was bare, with the exception for two couches, both of which had seen far better days. She didn’t know what the stains on the fabric were, but of one thing she was sure: she had no intention of finding out.

The linoleum floors were sticky and cracked. Neon lights were flickering above their heads, giving the place an even chillier look. Hermione was reminded of a horror film she once saw with her father, but pushed the thought aside. No need to get herself into a state.

A pervasive mix of acrid smells filled the air. Sweat, smoke and cheap deodorant hit her like a brick on the head, and her guess was they were all coming from the man sitting behind the check-in desk.

He was wearing a white vest, and Hermione could see what she hoped were tomato blotches on the front. A big golden chain with an even bigger cross adorned his neck, crowned by an embarrassing amount of chest hair.

While walking towards the desk, Hermione had to control her gag reflex. She threw a glance at Malfoy, and he too looked on the verge of throwing up. In a very chivalrous gesture, he signalled her to stay behind and let him deal with the fishy porter. If she had had more energy left, she would’ve purposely disregarded his gesture, just to spite him, but this once she was so tired and overwhelmed by their situation, that she just let him deal with the man.

“Buonasera, we booked for una notte”, he said very slowly, showing one finger and a printed copy of their reservation.

The man seized the paper, then rummaged into a drawer and retrieved the keys.

He dangled them in front of Malfoy, “Prima i soldi”, he said also showing a banknote.

“Excuse me? Money at checkout! Domani!” said Malfoy, trying to snatch the keys from the man’s fat fingers.

The brute all but snarled, and yanked the keys away from Malfoy’s grasp. “No. Pay now, then sleep. No money, no bed”.

Malfoy turned around “Granger, I don’t have any Mug—Italian money on me”. Hermione appreciated that he caught himself before saying Muggle in front of…a Muggle, but she highly doubted the man understood what they said anyway.

“You didn’t bring any?” she replied rolling her eyes. She retrieved some Euros in her jacket’s inner pocket and put them on the counter.

“Obviously not” 

The man took the money and gave Malfoy the keys. Hermione looked at the number printed on the key tag. “Tell him he only gave you one key, for Room 304”

It was too late. The man had already disappeared in a back room, shutting the door behind him. 

“Clearly, I haven’t booked it myself, Granger. The papers only mention one bloody room, probably a double. I swear I will never ask Theo for help again. He’s an accountant to the core, always trying to make me spend _less_ ”

“Theo as in Theodore Nott? Malfoy, did you really ask your best friend to book you a room?”

“Yes, I did. So?”

Hermione decided there was no use in arguing. “Never mind, just let’s go. Third floor”

Malfoy grabbed his suitcase, and Hermione heard him grumble. “I bet this shithole doesn’t even have a lift, and we can’t even use magic now”.

It sort of served him well for not even checking Theo’s work. It would’ve been funny, if only she didn’t have to suffer because of it too.

………………………

“What exactly is _that_?”

Hermione was standing on the threshold of the Hotel room, her baggage forgotten at her feet, too horrified to move.

Malfoy peered from behind her shoulder “Looks like a bed to me, Granger”

“Oh, thank _you._ ” She turned around to swat him on the shoulder “Of course it’s a bloody bed, don’t be stupid”.

He shrugged his shoulders. Unapologetically. Hermione hated when he looked so devil-may-care. In her humble opinion, no one had the right to do it so…so _naturally_.

“Well, stupid answer to an even-more-stupid question”

“Oh sod off Malfoy!”

She entered the room, and turned around to face him. “Now you’re going back downstairs, and you’re getting another room, because it will be a cold day in Hell when we share a bloody bed!”

She slammed the door on his nose and sat on the floor, ignoring his incessant pounding.

“Granger!! Open the door this instant! You can’t lock me out!”

“Go away!”

He knocked a few more times, all the while swearing like a sailor, but when he realised she wasn’t going to open the door, he left.

She spared no looks at her surroundings. She didn’t want to _know_ how filthy everything was, she could guess it from the tangy smell of grimy and unwashed linen. 

Once she was sure that Malfoy wasn’t standing behind the door, Hermione started crying.

She cried for all the times Malfoy had let her down, for all the effort on her part that went unnoticed. She cried for her own mistakes, her inability to read him. He was like a book written in an archaic language. A language she couldn’t translate. She could only guess, but she was never sure why he behaved the way he did. Sometimes she had the impression he only put up a front, and that his replies were carefully studied to mirror what he thought people _expected_ him to say. So she cried, until her eyes hurt. Until she had no tears left.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**One hour later**

After what seemed like ages, there was a loud knock on her door.

“Granger, please”

Hermione stood up, found the knob in the dark, and opened the door.

Malfoy was just standing there, saying nothing and waiting for a signal, but Hermione was too busy inspecting the bag he was holding.

He lifted it so she could see better. “I…got us some food. And alcohol.”

She turned on the light and took the bag, thanking him.

When she moved aside to let him in, he entered and closed the door behind him, checking it was locked for good measure. Hermione was standing in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do.

“I’m sorry”, they eventually said in unison.

Malfoy’s ears were bright red, a colour Hermione would never have associated with his skin, hadn’t she literally just witnessed it. The glacial Draco Malfoy was a warm-blooded person, just like her. 

She too was blushing, and could feel the heat inflaming her cheeks and neck. He had surely noticed her blotchy skin, and her puffy eyes, which for reasons she didn’t feel like exploring, embarrassed her more than anything else, but he didn’t comment on it. 

She sat back on the floor, waiting for Malfoy to do the same. 

He didn’t. Instead, he bent down and looked at her. “Granger, why aren’t we sitting on the bed again?”

“Suit yourself, if you fancy leeches and other cute little bugs” 

He scratched the back of his head. “That bad, huh?”

“Well, at least  _ there is _ a bed. There’s that”

Malfoy decided to forego the bed and sat cross-legged in front of Hermione. She had to stop the rummaging into the plastic bag, just to take a look at Draco Malfoy sitting like a Boy Scout in front of a campfire. Priceless.

“So, what have you gotten us? Pink pepper and lime crisps, ginger crisps...crushed black pepper crisps...Malfoy did you get something other than crisps?” she said, taking out all the different crisp bags and placing them on the floor between them. 

“Chocolate.”

“Why doesn’t this surprise me? And…?”

“Wine.”

“Merlin, you’re hopeless”.She grabbed a bag of crisps, and started munching the sinfully delicious junk food. He followed suit, and they sat like that for a while, in companionable silence. 

After a while, Malfoy grabbed a bottle of red wine. “I need to drink” he declared. “Bitches were salty”

Hermione wholeheartedly agreed. 

“We need a corkscrew for that bottle. Italians don’t do screw caps on their wines, even the cheap ones”

She expected Malfoy to say something about his wine not being cheap, instead he pulled a smirk out of the proverbial hat, and searched the bag. 

He had bought a corkscrew.

“Not that hopeless, eh Granger?”

She had to smile at that. 

“Maybe not”

He opened the bottle with dexterity, and offered it to Hermione. She was pretty impressed with his newfound chivalry, and took the bottle by its neck. At the last second, Malfoy pulled it back, dragging Hermione closer. 

He leaned over, and they were now only inches apart. “You don’t have germs, do you Granger?”

Hermione let go of the bottle to swat him on the head.

“Prat!”

He was laughing like the lunatic he was, and Hermione took advantage of his distraction to claim the bottle and take a swig. He took it back and gulped down a generous amount of wine too, his eyes never leaving hers. 

Hermione  _ knew _ he wasn’t scared of her supposed germs. Hermione  _ knew _ he considered her his equal, and that his racist days were long over. She also  _ knew _ that he took that guzzle just to prove a point.  _ Still, _ she was glad he did. 

He extended the bottle again, and this time she took it without any incident. Their hands brushed and Malfoy smiled. It wasn’t a sweet, saccharine smile. It was a fluffy smirk, if such a thing ever existed. She hadn’t realised how much she needed a sign from him, until then. 

Hermione had stopped measuring her worth based on what other people thought a long time ago, but there was something beautiful and rewarding in the fact that Draco Malfoy didn’t consider her a worthless nuisance. It was like a small victory within the victory. 

He took the bottle back and took another sip, his eyes still on her. “I was a jerk today. I am sorry”

Hermione’s first thought was, “When are you not?” but she caught herself in time. It was their first civil conversation in...forever. No need to ruin it with more banter. There had been plenty already. 

He sniggered, shaking his head. “I know what you’re thinking Granger. Salazar, aren’t you just rubbish at hiding your emotions?”

Apparently, Hermione was destined to keep blushing that night. “Maybe you’re too perceptive, Malfoy.”

“Well, if your basis for comparison is Weasley, I very well am.”

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, and took the bottle from him.“Why do you have to drag Ron into every discussion?” 

Malfoy moved closer and leaned with his back on the side of the bed, reclining his head to look at the ceiling. Hermione gave him the bottle, he took it from her hands, brushing her fingertips, and downed it. “Why did you have to drag him everywhere when we were kids?”

Again, she took the bottle from his hands. A little voice in the back of her mind tried to tell her that drinking wine with only crisps in her stomach, wasn’t probably her best idea, but she chose to ignore it in lieu of more wine and conversation. 

“As if it would’ve made a difference.”

She said it fast, and almost regretted it right after. It had escaped her lips before she could catch her tongue, and for that she blamed the alcohol. She turned to the side, and looked at Malfoy. Really looked at him. He had his head reclined on the bed, his eyes closed and his lips curved up. Hermione didn’t understand him. Based on their past interactions she had nearly expected him to insult her, or bite back with one of his vitriolic remarks. 

Instead, he kept still and almost whispered “Maybe, maybe not. I mean, I was a prick on all accounts, but I never--” he stopped mid-sentence, and opened his eyes. “Never mind, I just need another drink. Pass me the other bottle, Granger?”

An infinitesimal part of her brain, the one not yet inebriated, tried to protest, but the battle was lost before it even began. The other part, the one that desperately wanted to know what Malfoy was going to say, guided her hands towards the bottle, and had her open it for him.

“...You never what?”

He took a deep breath, and a generous sip, then turned to look at her. “You see, Weasley...I really couldn’t stand him. We are incompatible on too many levels. Potter, well he was a whole other thing. I was jealous, and I hated Dumbledore’s bias and plain favoritism” 

Hermione couldn’t disagree on that. During their Hogwarts years, more often than not they were encouraged, if not aided, to break the rules, and on top of that, they would be rewarded afterwards. 

Hermione wanted to reply, but she felt he wasn’t done speaking. His eyes bore holes into hers, and she could feel her pulse quicken.

“Ever heard of the fable about the fox and the grapes, Granger?”

She nodded. 

He smiled, and gestured to himself, then declared with a solemn voice:

_ “This Fox has a longing for grapes: _

_ He j _ _ umps, but the bunch still escapes. _

_ So he goes away sour; _

_ And, 'tis said, to this hour _

_ Declares that he's no taste for grapes.” _

Deep down, Hermione knew perfectly well what was going on, what he was trying to tell her, but it was so absurd, so unbelievable, that she had a hard time processing it. “What’s the moral of this story, Granger?”

She knew the answer by heart and recited it mechanically. _ “People who speak disparagingly of things that they cannot attain would do well to apply this story to themselves” _

“I guess this makes you my sour grapes, Hermione.”

Her name on his lips hit her like a Bludger, and sobered her up. She wanted to tell him something, but couldn’t remember how to speak, so she let him ramble. 

“I never disliked  _ you _ . I was programmed to hate you, to despise you, but I couldn’t. You made me question my father’s lessons, my very upbringing. Traitorous thoughts, that I had to repress. The only way to keep my family safe was to make sure no one could ever doubt me. At twelve, the best I could do was being very vocal with my insults.”

His words were doing weird things to her. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. She didn’t know what feeling would prevail, relief at finding out that she was right, that Draco Malfoy wasn’t all bad, or pain at the thought of what they’d been through at such a young age. 

She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out husky. “At seventeen though - she reached out to take his free hand - at seventeen you saved my life”

“Tsk, don’t paint me in such a good light. I didn’t do enough, even Weasley did better than me”

He seemed so angry, so self-deprecating, and Hermione hurt for him. 

“We were kids, Draco. As kids we look up to our parents, for guidance. When I was little, in my eyes, my father was a hero that could never do anything wrong, and my mum was my safe haven.”

He put the bottle down and took her hand in his. She could feel his calloused palms, and his warm skin. It was a good sort of weird, but they were both too embarrassed to dwell on it. 

“My family sure played a big role, but I am not free of blame. I was a right tosser. At school, and as a work partner. Rejecting you…”

“...Meant you couldn’t be rejected.”

He let go of her hand and stood up. Raking his hands through his hair, he went for the door.

“Wait!”

“What for?” He didn’t even turn around.

“Aren't you tired of being the fox, Draco? Of never getting to eat the grapes?”

She had never been that straightforward with a boy before. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fact that he had made her feel  _ things, _ and she desperately wanted to feel something. 

She was tired of being sad and apathetic. She wanted to feel alive, and if the flock of pigeons in her stomach were any indication, there was definitely something between her and Draco Malfoy. Something she would’ve liked to explore. 

He turned around, barely hiding his disbelief. 

“I’m not a good person, Granger. I will never be like Potter or Weasley. I am self-serving. no hero here,” he said, gesturing to himself. 

“Who said I was looking for a hero?”

She wasn’t. She had no idea what she was looking for, actually. For once, she had no plans, and it was so scary it was almost exhilarating. 

“What if it doesn’t end well?”

“Then it doesn’t”

Hermione had read somewhere that hottest fires burned blue, and his eyes were no exception. She felt something in her abdomen stir, move, stretch and melt while he closed the distance that separated them with two strides and took her in his arms. His hands rested in her hair, and he kissed her hungrily, like a man who’d been starved for a month and then put in front of a gargantuan feast. He ran his tongue over her lower lip, and she gasped in surprise. He nibbed and bit it, then sucked it into his mouth. 

Draco’s hands slid down her body, sinfully slow, and she shivered with pleasure and bit back a moan. He pressed his forehead to hers. “What if it’s just the alcohol talking?” he rasped “You might wake up tomorrow and regret it”

Hermione’s head was spinning, but she was sure the alcohol was not to blame. It was the adrenaline. Was it reckless? Yes. That didn’t mean it was wrong. “I think I might regret it more if we stopped,” she breathed. 

She could feel his muscles tense, while he searched her face for any sign of uncertainty. “I have wanted this for so long, Hermione” he blurted, “but only if you do too.”

His facade had dropped. The obnoxious, sometimes rude, always haughty boy she had known… had suddenly been replaced. Hermione had to admit she was intrigued. She had always wondered if there was more behind his attitude, and Merlin she was glad he hadn’t disappointed. 

She placed a finger on his lips, successfully shutting him up. “Draco, please...stop thinking, and get me on that bed”

He pulled her closer and inhaled sharply, his pupils dilated. He was wearing a wolfish smile, that of a predator who had his prey exactly where he wanted it to be. Hermione’s blood was roaring in her ears, and all she could think of were Draco’s lips on her. Every inch of her. 

He picked her up and reached the bed with one long stride.

Hermione’s head was spinning from a heady combination of adrenaline and arousal. Draco gently leaned her on the duvet, and slid her shoes and thighs off. Hermione had to admit he had an admirable self-control. She just wanted to tear his clothes off and jump him.

Which was probably why she had been sorted into Gryffindor and he into Slytherin. 

He worked the buttons of his shirt, painfully slow, without ever taking his eyes off her. 

Hermione propped up, to take a better look at his chest. White as alabaster, and by the look of it, just as hard. 

Her hands itched, she was dying to caress his hair, his skin. After what felt like ages, he was finally done with his trousers. She patted the bed beside her, hoping there were no actual bugs on it, and he smirked, knowing full well that he was taking his sweet time. 

“Draco…” she threatened, and he held his hands up in mock surrender and reached her on the bed. 

“So impatient…” 

“I’ve been patient with you the whole day, have I not?” 

He laughed and leaned to kiss her, but stopped midway to take her in. 

She was pleased to note that he liked what he saw, if his open mouth and bulging briefs were any indication. 

She was wearing only her bra and knickers, her dress long-discarded, and thankfully that morning she had opted for a coordinated black lace lingerie instead of her sensible travel panties.

He descended and kissed her, torturously slow, then paused again to move her hair away and whisper in her ear. 

“Granger...I must say...I fucking love how the grapes taste.” 

The End 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Fox and the Grapes" text and description (in italics) were taken from Wikipedia


End file.
